Somewhere Only We Know
by OnceUponATime.TheEnd
Summary: "Oh John..." He will sob, cradling him in his arms and burrowing his face into the familiar sandy-blonde hair. "What have you done..." He will regret the years they'd spent apart. He will regret not making all the memories that they could've. Johnlock! WARNINGS: suicide, major character death


**Somewhere Only We Know**

_TO LIVE (verb) _

_1. To continue in existence, operation _

_2. To experience or enjoy life to the fullest._

John Hamish Watson is broken.

Now, if you had met him three years ago, this wouldn't have been the case. In fact, a fitting term that most would've used back then would be 'soldier'. Because no matter what kind of crap was thrown at him, he'd always bounce back.

Always.

But... Not now. He just stays in the same armchair. At the same time of day. With the same mug full of tea. And he sits. And he stares. At what, however, nobody can be certain. Perhaps it's the violin which rests still in the exact same spot _he'd_ left it in. Perhaps it's the window, which shows a street thriving with life; such a stark contrast to the dull, monotonous motions he goes through each day. The only thing that keeps him tethered to this world is the measured beats in his chest. John Watson seems to have forgotten how to live.

And, unbeknownst to him, a dark-haired, blue-scarfed man watches his slow and declining spiral through a computer screen. His brow furrows and his heart clenches for the man he loves.

John will smile and laugh for Mrs. Hudson. He will wave off concerned questions from friends and family. He will be better. But only for them. Once he is alone, he will scrub off that smile with soap and warm water. He'll remove the makeup currently hiding the dark bags beneath his tired blue eyes. He will shake off the false image of happiness. Once he is alone, he will allow himself to feel. He doesn't have to pretend. Not for anyone. He will spend his days remembering.

On one day in particular, he will settle in his armchair, grateful that Mrs. Hudson is on vacation. And he will write a note. Place it on the coffee table. Pick up a bottle of pain meds. Pour some on his palm. Raise it to his mouth...

But the doorbell will ring. He won't stop for anything. Because finally, he'll be with Sherlock. He'll spend the rest of eternity with his best friend and the greatest man to have ever lived.

Riiiiing.

He will raise the pills once more. His breath will come in quicker pants that he'll attempt and fail to calm. No turning back now.

Riiiiing.

'Go away.' He'll mutter to himself, growing a tad bit annoyed at the intrusions, almost tempted to yell "I'M NOT HOME!" No distractions. Sighing, he will lay the first on his tongue, swallowing.

Riiiiing.

Nodding resolutely, he will throw every single pill back into his mouth and gulp painfully. And he will sit. And he will stare. And he will wait.

BANG!

Footsteps walking calmly up the staircase. The creak of the door as it opens, slowly, as if the one opening it wasn't meant to be there.

"...John? Jo- JOHN!"

The man will run over to the armchair. He will notice the bottle and the note immediately. And he will cry. This man is Sherlock Holmes. The machine. The high functioning sociopath, incapable of feeling. Incapable of sorrow.

"Oh John..." He will sob, cradling him in his arms and burrowing his face into the familiar sandy-blonde hair. "What have you done..." He will regret the years they'd spent apart. He will regret not making all the memories that they could've.

And meanwhile John will simply grin, knowing that this is another one of his hallucinations, and that he'll be with the real Sherlock in just a few moments. He figures, that he might as well make the most of his physical form while he still has it. He will reach up and entwine his fingers into Sherlock's dark hair, pulling down and crashing their lips together. He will smile into the kiss, wondering what kissing the real Sherlock would've been like.

He looks up, noticing a few new scars on the otherwise flawless pale skin that hadn't ever been in any of his other imaginings of the man. He scrunched his nose, trying to understand why this version looked so different from the others.

"John..." Sherlock will whisper. "I'm here." And the doctor's face will relax in comprehension and acceptance; finally.

He understands. John Hamish Watson is pieced together sloppily with white glue.

With one last utter of the consulting detective's name, his eyes will flutter and his body will go limp. The dark-haired man will scream. He will shake the corpse pitifully, praying for a response that he knows will never come. He will fall next to his blogger. He will curl up next to him.

And for the first time in 3 years, Sherlock Holmes will update his blog.

SEPTEMBER 28 2013 (12:55 PM)

It hurts to breathe.


End file.
